


the only way out is through

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Bottom Richie Tozier, Comfort Sex, First Time, Fix-It, Getting Dicked Down Is Part Of The Grieving Process, Ghost Voyeurism, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Resurrection, Sex Magic, Spoilers: Nobody Is Staying Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “I’m Don,” the guy says, reaching out his hand, which Richie takes happily. His grip is strong and quick, and Richie’s hand tingles with the contact. It’s pathetic. But it’s been… a while. Richie doesn’t really want to think about how long. No use in hashing out the details, not when Don is turning and asking, “So what brings you to Derry?”“Uhh…” Richie stumbles, brain scrambling for the explanation he gave Steve, when he finally returned his millions of calls, not to mention the hospital that stitched up Mike’s hand and, most notably, the cops. “A reunion. High school reunion.”-Or: Richie and Don meet at The Falcon and unknowingly (and drunkenly) alter their fates.
Relationships: Don Hagarty/Adrian Mellon, Don Hagarty/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 37
Kudos: 117
Collections: Clowntown Kink Meme 2021





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [clowntown2021](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/clowntown2021) collection. 



> CW: Richie isn't exactly mentally healthy in this fic, so he experiences some symptoms of dissociation/depersonalization during sex. It's nothing explicit, but just be aware that he is grieving and has been drinking.
> 
> Prompt: After the events of the movie, Richie and Don run into each other at The Falcon and have ill-conceived drunken comfort sex. Optional whether you want to resurrect Eddie and/or Adrian afterward.

When Richie Tozier stumbles into The Falcon, at the very edge of Derry, Maine, the sign hanging precariously from its hinges and only a handful of cars in the cramped parking lot, almost no one looks up. 

Which, like… yeah. That seems about right. 

It’s nothing like what Richie imagined would happen if he got within a stone’s throw of this place. When he was a kid, Richie was convinced they would burn him at the stake just for looking at the storefront window. He _knew_ about this place; he had heard all the nasty rumors and jokes. Going in wasn’t an option—not that they would have let him at age fourteen, or fifteen, or sixteen, and by the time he turned eighteen he was long gone. 

Of course, he’s not totally out of his depth—he’s been to _plenty_ of gay bars. But in Maine? No way, no how. Sure, he spent most of his time confined to Derry, and the Toziers were not a fluctuating type; they were homebodies. Wentworth Tozier was born and raised in Derry, Maine, and no amount of Maggie Tozier’s griping would have gotten him to move. After ol’ Went passed, she didn’t seem so keen on leaving it behind, either. 

Once Richie was old enough to make his own decisions, he called the whole state a bust and hauled ass as far West as he could possibly manage. It was only in his thirties that he felt comfortable settling as close as Chicago. Then again, he couldn’t quite remember why he was so East-Coast-phobic anyway. 

Now he remembers. Now he remembers _everything_. Now he remembers enough to know he wish he could fucking forget again. 

Now, he’s not sure why he was so scared. 

Now, the last thing on his mind is what someone might to do him here. After all, what could they possibly take? His wallet? His phone? His last shred of dignity? Who fucking cares. He’s already lost what feels like the very center of him. He’s already lost— 

Fuck. It feels like he’s lost everything. 

All he needs now is a drink. No matter who is watching or not. 

It’s not too crowded, so Richie slides into a chair by the table closest to the wall and flags down a bartender.

“Vodka gimlet,” he says, the words ghosting out quietly. 

“Really?” The guy asks, polishing a glass like he’s in an old Western. Richie nods.

“My dad used to order them. When I—” He blinks, watching the bartender’s eyebrow arch and realizing this guy probably doesn’t need to hear old tales from Richie’s teenagehood in Derry. “Yeah, just. One please.” 

The guy doesn’t seem bothered; in fact, he hardly seems to notice. 

The drink is disgusting when it comes, but Richie swallows it down, sip by sip, a practice in patience and fulfilling some sort of vow for his younger self. This is what he thought adulthood would be like as a child: muscling through uncomfortable moments to seem more _mature_. He always imagined there would be some sort of prize at the end of the rainbow. But the farther he got along, the less and less he believed one would appear. 

_Life is hard_ , he heard, time and time again. At fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, he thought he knew what that meant. And maybe he did. Maybe the hard was different back then than it is now. He drinks and drinks and lets the emptiness swirl in him and tries to revel in it, in making it through the _hard_ ; he tries to revel in feeling at all.

At least he has that. At least he’s alive. Whatever that means. 

“Drowning your sorrows?” hears Richie, and when he looks up, a younger guy—almost as tall as him—is hovering over his table. 

“Uh.” Richie laughs, wet and thick. “Yeah, you caught me.” 

The guy smiles. “Not a leap, in a place like this.” 

Richie nods. The guy’s eyes drag heavy on him, still watching, and after a beat, Richie realizes he’s waiting. That’s why guys come here, to talk. To drink, to find people like them. The last thing Richie needs right now is to meet someone new, but as the seconds tick on, he’s more and more tempted to not spend the night alone. He could have taken any of his friends up on their offers to sleep, or eat, or fuck off and drink with them, too; but the concept of sitting with people who know him so intimately, while they waited for him to pour his guts out, to explain why he clung so tightly to Eddie’s body, why he had to be dragged out of the crumbling Neibolt house screaming Eddie’s name— 

It’s not exactly appealing. 

This guy, on the other hand… well. He’s tall. He’s young-ish, with round apple cheeks and a wide smile. His eyes are soft, brown, just like— but sad. He looks nothing like Richie, aside from the height, but something about him reminds Richie of himself. With a pained hitch in his chest, he gestures to the seat next to him. 

“You wanna…?” 

“Oh.” The guy suddenly looks surprised, like that’s not what he was angling for all along, and Richie’s whole body heats in a moment of temporary panic, but then the guy’s smile comes back in spades. “Yeah, man. Thanks.” 

He sits down and scoots a bit closer than Richie probably would, and something about that cleaves a weird mixture of hope and sadness through Richie’s heart. This kid’s probably only ten years younger than him—so not really a kid at all—and yet so much more comfortable. And in Derry, no less. 

“I’m Don,” the guy says, reaching out his hand, which Richie takes happily. His grip is strong and quick, and Richie’s hand tingles with the contact. It’s pathetic. But it’s been… a while. Richie doesn’t really want to think about how long. No use in hashing out the details, not when Don is turning and asking, “So what brings you to Derry?” 

“Uhh…” Richie stumbles, brain scrambling for the explanation he gave Steve, when he finally returned his millions of calls, not to mention the hospital that stitched up Mike’s hand and, most notably, the cops. “A reunion. High school reunion.”

Don’s lips thin out in a straight line, and he orders a drink without a question. Apparently their explanation is plausible, considering it’s summer, though Richie wouldn’t believe it coming from anyone else in a million years. _Normal_ people don’t want to attend their high school reunions. Someone coming back to Derry to face the terror of the shit heels they grew up with? Totally implausible. 

“Did you grow up here?” he asks while on that train of thought. Don nods, sipping at his rum and coke. 

“Class of 2010.” He lifts his glass toward the ceiling in a mock cheer, then takes another drink, this one more enthusiastic. Richie’s eyebrows shoot up to his nearly non-existent hairline. 

“Holy shit, you’re a fucking baby.” Richie laughs, shaking his head. Without thinking, he asks, “So what are you doing with all us lonely hearts on a Friday night?” 

And just like that, Don’s smile falls off his face. He rubs his palm over his forehead, and it’s then that Richie sees fading bruises over the line of his jaw, all the way up to the arches of his brow. Richie’s breath catches in his throat, but he swallows it down as Don says, “Just tying up some loose ends.” 

“Right.” Richie’s blood runs cold. 

“I just, uh…” Don sighs, then crosses his arms heavily on the table in front of him. “I lost someone. Recently.”

“Oh,” Richie says, then quick, catching himself, adds, “I’m sorry.” 

Don waves, taking another drink, a smile back on his face. It’s achingly familiar, superficially people-pleasing so he doesn’t kick up too much of a fuss. Richie suppresses the urge to reach across and grab Don’s hand, and maybe that’s why he actually tells him the truth. 

“I just… I just lost someone, too, actually,” he says, his throat almost closing up in the process. Don’s eyes snap to his.

“Really?” But before Richie can answer, Don’s hand finds his arm, slamming down heavily on his bicep. “I don’t know why I said… sorry, I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Richie says. His skin crawls, but it’s not altogether unpleasant. Don’s hand is warm and solid, and Richie is grateful for the human touch. “It’s alright, it was… really recent, actually. Like, yesterday.” 

Don’s clearly thrown. Richie can’t even feel like an idiot, not with this well of relief bursting forth. Even saying the words aloud are bringing him some sort of comfort, despite his best wishes. 

“God, I’m so— fuck.” Don swigs at his drink until it’s empty, then flags down the bartender. “You need another too, right?” 

Richie coughs a laugh, staring down at his already empty glass. “I’ll have what you’re having this time.” 

Once they start on their second drinks, Don flattens his palms on the table and breaks the silence.

“My boyfriend died just last week.” He sniffs, his fingers flinching. The whiskey already burns bright and warm in Richie’s stomach, but he feels the tears rise. “He was… he was killed. He was beat up, and then—”

Don swallows, pinches his eyes closed, takes a drink. 

“You don’t have to,” Richie tries, and Don’s eyes pop back open and meet his own. Richie sees something there, something familiar, but not what he saw before. This time it’s almost frightening. A shiver cuts up his spine, pooling at the base of his neck, and he feels like he could be down in the sewer again, cold and dark and wet and scared for his fucking life. 

Somehow, he thinks Don might know what that feels like, too. 

After a beat of silence, Don prods at his wet eyes. “Anyway,” he says, choked, “probably not a very sexy topic of conversation.” 

Richie blinks, but catches himself yet again. 

“Oh, it is for me,” he says, and Don looks back up at him. “I’m into the whole gay tragedy shit.” 

Don coughs out a laugh, surprised, and it sets Richie’s nerves at ease. Richie laughs along until Don’s tears dry up completely. 

“Did you, uh.” Don sniffs, wiping at his cheeks. “Was it your… partner? Boyfriend?” 

Richie scoffs, painful lightning shooting through his veins.

“Husband?” Don tries, and somehow, that one hurts worse. 

“No, uh. No.” _I fucking wish_ , Richie thinks. His heart drops into his stomach. “No, just a friend.” 

Don hums, picking up his drink. “Well, I’m sorry all the same.” 

Richie nods, then tips his glass until it clinks with Don’s. “Same to you, young man.” 

They grin dopily at each other, then drink. From there, they chat for awhile about innocuous things: jobs, family, school. When Don mentions his intended move out of state, Richie suggests Chicago. Don blushes and says he’ll consider it, and Richie feels the beginning of some sort of weight lifting off his heart; it’s as if someone is peeling very gently at the corner, _slowly_ , taking their time but it’s… but it’s something. 

After their third drinks come and go, Don slams his hands back on the table. He’s an expressive man, with flailing limbs and fluctuating tone; sometimes he reminds Richie of himself, and sometimes of Eddie. In an absurd and fleeting moment Richie can imagine he’s there with Eddie, reveling in beating the clown, staring down the barrel of the rest of their lives. 

Don says, “So, I had a thought,” and Richie’s pulled out of it, plunged back to the cold reality of his life. 

“Dangerous,” he says, but his voice cracks. Don doesn’t seem to notice or care. His eyebrow cocks and he leans in close, his breath warm and pungent on Richie’s neck. 

“You wanna get out of here?” 

Richie is yet again stunned. This time he’s not so good at hiding it. His jaw practically drops. 

“Are you _serious_?”

Don reels back. “What??” 

“That’s fucking crazy,” he snorts. “Excuse my French.” 

Don sits back a bit, sighing heavily. “You’re probably right.” 

“I think I am.” Richie mouths at his glass, finding it empty. By the time he’s put it back on the table, Don’s hand has found his thigh. 

“I’m fucking… lonely,” Don says, and when Richie looks up, his eyes are wet, shiny in the light. “I know you are, too. I can tell. I can fucking— I can tell.” 

Richie shudders out a breath. “Of course I’m lonely, dude, I’m always…” Richie thinks of his room at the Inn, of his stupid sports car, of all the friends he pushed away. Of the ones he left.

He clears his throat. “I’m always lonely.” 

Don shuffles a little closer, his arm curling subtly around Richie’s shoulders. Fingers play at the hair on the nape of Richie’s neck, and Richie presses into the touch. His eyes flutter shut. Fuck, he’s so fucking pathetic. 

“Come home with me, then,” Don whispers. 

And Richie, he— 

He wants to say no. He most definitely _should_ say no. He’s been out of his mind, grieving for the past two days, running on a few hours of a sleep he was able to catch at the hospital while they were waiting on Mike. It was mere hours ago he was crying over which of his two other shirts to change into, desperate to clean Eddie’s blood off of him, yet so fucking afraid to let it go for good. And now this young, sad— _grieving_ —guy is propositioning him, and all he wants is to be touched. Kissed. Fucked, maybe, if Don is down for that. 

Richie shivers, his soft cock jerking with interest. 

_Fuck_. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, digging for his wallet and tugging out the two fifties Steve gave him “for emergencies.” “Let’s go before I change my mind.” 

Don exhales something like a laugh, and then they’re stumbling toward the door. 

Neither of them are particularly drunk, but it’s clear as soon as they hit the bedroom that the energy isn’t exactly enthusiastic. Richie is exhausted, and sad, and feels pretty shitty about himself, just in general. Don drags his feet and occasionally bursts into tears, but Richie once fucked a married guy who felt so guilty every time they had sex that he sobbed as he came, so it doesn’t feel too foreign. Somehow, that makes Richie feel both better and worse. 

Once they’re both down to their underwear, and after some light necking, Don’s hand finds the curve of Richie’s hardening cock through his briefs. He’s propped up on his elbows on Don’s bed, his bare chest heaving with the touch. Don moans when Richie punches out a sigh.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he encourages, and Richie whines high in his throat. He feels taken apart already. Sensitive, pulled from every direction. The exhaustion has made his brain mush, but he tries to blink himself back to full steam while Don mouths wet kisses to his neck. 

It feels nice. Especially when Don’s hand gets more and more bold, crawling up to pull at the band of his briefs. He pulls back with a lingering lick.

“Can I?” 

Richie nods. “Please, yeah.” 

“ _Please_ ,” Don repeats, light and teasing as he pulls Richie out, thick and hot against his palm. “So polite.” 

Richie’s breath hitches as Don spits on his cock, jerking him until he’s fully hard. 

“Touching my dick unlocks all my manners,” Richie says, trying and failing to sound unaffected. Something deep in him twinges, something bucking and fighting against being vulnerable. This guy’s already seen him tear up over Eddie, he doesn’t need the satisfaction of making Richie cry during sex. Unfortunately, Don really seems to know his way around a dick. And he’s certainly given a blowjob or two. As soon as he leans down to pop the head in his mouth, Richie has to look away, clenching his eyes shut and trying desperately not to imagine— 

“You don’t have to think of me,” Don says, and Richie blinks his eyes open to see Don jerking him lazily, watching him with pink cheeks and a red mouth. 

“Wh-what?” 

“I get it.” Don licks his lips and Richie watches the motion. “If you’re thinking of… you know. Your friend. I’m just saying that’s okay.”

“My— he really was just my—” 

Don rolls his eyes. “Alright,” he says, then moans around another giant mouthful of Richie’s cock. Richie’s hand flies up to grip at the back of his hair, his fingers dragging against Don’s scalp, and that gets him a moan too, so he does it even harder. 

“You like that?” he asks, and Don tries to nod, but just garbles a wet noise. Richie’s heart pounds. “You want it harder?” 

Don whines, still trying to nod. His hand flies down to where his cock is hard and trapped in his underwear, so Richie—ever generous man that he is—pulls at the band until it springs free. It’s… it’s nice. Long, hard, a beautiful pink that’s flushed at the tip. He briefly wonders if Eddie’s would look the same, then shakes that thought off as quick as it comes. Don may have said it’s alright, but it knots an acidic ball of guilt in Richie’s stomach. To distract himself, he fists a hand around Don’s cock, but finds it dry. 

“You got some lube around here?”

Don hums, releasing Richie’s cock, now wet and straining. He crawls up the bed and rummages around in his bedside drawer. 

As soon as he turns back around with a bottle in his hand, he motions for Richie to join him. Richie goes easy. He means to ask Don if he’s going to fuck him, or maybe just what he wants in general, but Don’s hands are already on his hips, drawing him down until he’s on his side. Richie feels the heat of Don’s body right up against his before a hand starts to pry his ass apart. 

“Yikes,” he hisses, then hears the click of the bottle opening. 

“This okay?” Don asks, while his fingers make quick work of teasing Richie’s hole. Richie keens, fisting a hand in the sheets, and tries not to sob. 

“Yeah,” he chokes out, “yeah, it’s good.” 

Don huffs against the back of his neck. His fingers are relentless. “You’re tight.” 

Richie snickers. “You know just how to fl- _hah-_ atter a guy.” 

Don’s not wrong—they’re at it for awhile before Richie feels even close to ready. The big, cresting thing rising in his chest doesn’t subside, even as Don’s cock is pressing inside him, thick and all encompassing and _too much_ and _not enough_ and Richie feels pinned in place and outside his body all at once. 

Don doesn’t go slow, and Richie doesn’t want him to. He keeps a hand on Don’s thigh, reaching back to pull him in as soon as he drags out. He doesn’t have much leverage on the bed, but tries to thrust back as best he can. Their bodies slap together awkwardly, out of sync, but the friction and Richie’s own hand on his cock brings him close to the edge far too quickly. 

He tries to breathe through it. He tries to clench his eyes shut and just stay in the moment, but he’s haunted by images as soon as his vision blurs out with pleasure. 

_Eddie_. 

Eddie pressed up against him. Eddie’s mouth latched onto the back of his neck. Eddie soothing a hand up and down his chest, tweaking at his nipple, cupping around his cock. Maybe Eddie’s done this before; maybe he fucked around on his wife, or slept with men in college. Maybe he would lay Richie down like Don is doing now, take over, show him what he wants and take without so much as asking. 

Or maybe he would be slower, gentler, more cautious, more anxious. Maybe Richie would be Eddie’s first time with a man. Maybe being with Eddie would finally be satisfying. 

Maybe it would be a huge mistake. 

Richie has no way of knowing. And he’ll never be able to find out. 

A hand lifts at Richie’s hips, twisting him further up, strong and commanding, and then Richie’s being fucked within an inch of his life, face pressed into the mattress, and all he can think of is Eddie. Eddie at his back, Eddie’s hands holding him down while he takes what he needs. 

“ _Shit_ ,” someone hisses in his ear, licking a stripe along the sweaty nape of his neck. “Rich— Richie, you alright?” 

“Keep going,” Richie hisses, desperately shaking off the sound of Don’s voice, not wanting to remember where he is or what he’s doing besides being held down, taken apart, _used_. 

God, _fuck_ , he just wants Eddie to use him. 

Don keeps going like that, faster and faster, groaning and grunting until the very sound of him starts to bring Richie closer to the edge again. The sensations are hitting Richie like a truck, static all through his body, and he tries to be grateful for the feeling. He tries to be grateful he’s even fucking _alive_. 

After another few thrusts, Richie shoves a hand down to start jerking himself off. 

“I’m coming, I’m— I’m gonna pull out,” Don groans almost immediately, shaking at Richie’s back.

“No, fuck, no,” Richie tells him, his hand flying over his own cock, trying to get back to the precipice of his own orgasm so he can come when Don goes off inside him. 

“God, Adrian.” Don’s breath hitches, like he’s going to correct himself, but instead he groans, “Ahhh- _hah_ \- ahh, I’m coming—” 

“Jesus _fuck_ , come inside me,” Richie hiccups, hungry for it. He needs to know he’s doing good, that he made Don come. He doesn’t care who Don is thinking of, what name pours out of his mouth anymore. He just wants to _feel_ this. 

His eyes are suddenly wet, and before the tears fall down his cheeks he starts to come, just as Don’s slapping hurriedly inside him, groaning his release loudly in Richie’s ear. They rock together, riding it out, back and forth and back and forth until Don’s body slumps against his. After another minute, he hears Don muffling gasps into his back. 

“Hey,” he whispers, trying to roll over. Don’s hands hold him in place. 

“It’s okay, s’okay, please just…” He sniffs, pulling out without much warning. Richie grimaces through it, feeling pathetic again. A whole world of emptiness seems to fill him in that moment, and he wants nothing more than to forget all of this and go to sleep. 

However, waking up with his hand super-glued to his dick doesn’t sound appealing either, so he hoists himself out of bed and cleans up in the bathroom. When he comes back, Don is leaned up against the headboard, looking sheepish. His eyes are red and swollen from tears, and he looks so young that Richie could cry.

Again. 

Richie wants to apologize— _pathetic_ , so fucking pathetic—or make a joke, or maybe just keep talking as he slowly exits stage left, but then Don wipes at his face and asks, “Do you wanna stay?” 

So Richie stays. 

God knows he has nowhere else to be. 

In the morning, Richie wakes before Don, which is, honestly, kind of annoying. He tries not to shuffle around too much, and decides he can wait to pee for another half an hour, and hopefully Don will wake up in the meantime. As he reaches for his phone, he hears movement coming from outside the closed bedroom door. 

Don snores quietly as Richie makes out a voice, then another, moving closer and closer until the doorknob starts to jiggle. His heart nearly pounds out of his fucking chest. 

“I guess he’s in here if he—” A young man swings the door open slowly, talking to someone on his right until he sees Richie’s head poking up from under the comforter. “Oh _Christ_.” 

Richie punches Don’s sleeping body _hard_ , right in the ribs, and he jerks awake immediately. 

“What the _fu—_ ” Don snuffles, grumpy and groggy, then lifts his head and his eyes go wide. “Adrian??” 

_What_. 

“Didn’t mean to bother you,” Adrian says, swaying into the room, hands on his hips. His eyes haven’t left Richie, pinning him in place with some cross between amusement and what Richie would probably call flirtatious, if he weren’t currently in bed with… 

_It can’t fucking be_. 

Richie’s heard a lot of ridiculous ploys for sex before, but making up a dead boyfriend just about tops the list.

Then Richie hears a sharp, pointed, “Adrian?” from the hallway, and everything freezes. 

He tries to pull air into his lungs to no avail, so the word croaks out of him, dry and hopeful.

“Eddie?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger but there will be a chapter two sooooon. 
> 
> I hope this satisfied the prompt so far!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eddie?” 
> 
> Just as the name is out of his mouth, Eddie appears in the doorway, and the world seems to dissolve before Richie’s very eyes. 
> 
> “Hey, Richie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me a bit, so I apologize for the delay, but it is... uh. Much longer than the first chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Eddie?” 

Just as the name is out of his mouth, Eddie appears in the doorway, and the world seems to dissolve before Richie’s very eyes. 

“Hey, Richie.” 

Colors blend into each other; the cream-colored walls with the navy blue comforter that’s scratchy on Richie’s bare thighs; the little rainbow flags stuck under knick-knacks and in pen cups scattered across Don’s bookshelf; the black of Eddie’s t-shirt and the blue of his jeans: nothing like the clothes he was wearing when Richie left him. 

When Richie left him underground. Bleeding. Dying… 

Dead. 

_Jesus Christ_. 

“You two know each other?” Adrian asks, motioning toward where Eddie is inexplicably, unexplainably, beautifully— _fuck_ —standing in the doorway, his eyes just as wide and wondrous as they were when Richie hit the gong at the Jade and turned around to see him again after three decades. It feels like a lifetime has been lived between them again, but a blurrier one; one that Richie could wager might not have even happened, by the way Eddie is so solid and stable and… alive. 

He’s fucking _alive_. 

And a little flustered, from the way he fumbles over the answer. Richie is still computing, at least ten minutes mentally behind all of them, especially Don, who is inching closer and closer to where Adrian is watching Eddie, amused. 

“Yeah, he’s um, yeah, we…” Eddie clears his throat, and Adrian throws Richie a smile. Richie just blinks. “Yeah, he’s one of the friends I was telling you about.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Adrian drones, then sits at the edge of the bed. “Right. When you took a little lonely sojourn.” He raises his eyebrows, scans Richie up and down. “Did you—”

“Adrian,” Eddie interrupts, and Adrian raises his hands, the smile still pulling at his lips. 

“Well what a small world it is, after all.” He looks back at Eddie, whose face has flushed red, but Richie’s too dumbstruck to figure out what the fuck any of that means. Richie hears a deep, ragged breath next to him. 

“ _Adrian_ ,” Don shudders out brokenly, and Adrian finally turns all of his attention toward where he’s still hovering next to Richie in the bed. 

“Hi, baby,” he says softly, and Richie feels like his heart is breaking in his chest. Don’s too, apparently. His head hits the center of the bed with a soft _whump_. Adrian scoots up a few inches to pet over his hair. 

Richie can’t take his eyes off Eddie. He’s toeing at the ground, his cheeks fading to a warm pink, his hands wringing nervously in front of him. The clothes he’s wearing are clearly too small for him, but they look _good_ , better than the baggy shirt and slacks he wore at dinner, at the Inn, in the sewers. Richie wants to ask where he got them, where he came from, how he’s here, but when he opens his mouth, he sounds just as exhausted with grief as Don does.

“Eds…”

Eddie looks up at him. His hand scrubs at the back of his neck and he’s not smiling, not exactly, but his thin lips are pressed together like he’s got something to say but can’t quite get it out. 

Richie’s fingers itch to touch him. He moves to get up, but then remembers he’s wearing nothing but boxers. When his attention cuts from trying to bore reality from Eddie’s very being, he also notices Don and Adrian have started kissing right next to him. 

“Oh.” He winces as they roll together, mouths locked passionately. 

“ _Baby_ ,” Don breathes between them, and Richie pushes himself quickly out of the bed, lack of clothes be damned. He snaps up to look at Eddie. 

“We should probably, uh…” He trails off, noticing Eddie’s staring at his naked chest, and he flushes hot and _confused_. This is all way too fucking much. 

Adrian lets out a deep-throated moan, and Eddie’s cheeks go even pinker. He blinks, stuttering out a, “Oh, uh. Wow. Yeah. Let’s… go?” 

“Gimme a sec, I’m…” He gestures down at himself, and Eddie nods, clenching his eyes shut then snapping them back open. Richie laughs softly, somewhere between devastated and elated and a little turned on, so he grabs his clothes off the floor and sprints into the bathroom again while Eddie ducks back into the hallway, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks, Adrian,” before he closes the door behind him. 

Faced with himself in the mirror, the fabric of reality seems to start to mend itself for Richie. His reflection has always been his go-to to help with dissociative episodes; in moments he’s been too drunk or high or depressed or… worse, the point of connection brings it all back around. It’s not a solution, but a way for him to confirm he’s still standing on solid ground. Ish. 

Right now he just looks tired, and hairy, and maybe a little bit hungover, which is something he didn’t have the wherewithal to process before the stark bathroom light hit him. Acid churns unhappily in his stomach and up through his esophagus. Chugging about a gallon of water sounds good right about now. Maybe he can convince Eddie to grab a bite to eat. 

Jesus fuck. What is _happening_? 

The thought of taking Eddie out for breakfast, sitting across from him, watching him eat or talk or… explain how he’s fucking _alive_ is so bizarre that Richie eyes the toilet for several heavy moments. Puking might help the hangover, and the inevitable sense of dread he feels about opening the bathroom door back up and dealing with all of this, but he has a feeling the canoodling couple on the bed might not appreciate it. Last night he would have given anything to see Eddie walk in the room. Now that it’s a reality—and that Eddie happened to walk in on him _in bed with a guy_ —it feels… far more complicated. 

But the urge to simply be around Eddie eclipses all of it. So he throws on his clothes and starts his precarious trek out. Luckily, Don and Adrian are now sitting up in bed, holding hands and chatting quietly, instead of tangled around each other attached at the tongue. Don turns to watch Richie tiptoe, trying not to disturb them. 

“Richie, wait,” Don says, but Richie shakes his head.

“No, man, it’s fine. You two need some time alone.” He stares resolutely at the door. “Thanks for the uh—” He makes a motion with his hands that he intends to mean _the half blowjob and fucking all the tears out of me_ but it turns more into a sputtering and a shrug before Adrian snickers.

“Yes, the _uhhh_.” He elbows Don, whose face has gone red. Richie would feel guilty, or maybe humiliated—okay, so he’s already kind of humiliated—but Adrian looks nothing but delighted. “Thanks for giving my boyfriend a nice _uhhh_ in my stead, Rich.” 

The nickname is odd coming out of his mouth, but then Richie’s brain alights with the memory of Adrian’s face, swiping past him in the park. The man before him doesn’t have a gash on his cheek, or the same pallid blue complexion, but he’s starkly, dangerously familiar, and it makes Richie’s skin go cold. 

_Hope to see you there, handsome_. 

“Not… not a problem,” Richie whispers, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Adrian winks.

Richie thinks about that toilet again. 

“Have a nice night with Eddie,” Adrian says, teasing, and Richie snaps out of his daze a little at the mention of Eddie. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about.” 

“Adrian,” Don hisses, and Richie wonders what he knows. What Adrian knows. What _Eddie_ knows. Did coming back from the dead imbue him with more other-worldly knowledge? Does he know how Richie feels about him? Did Don immediately take his tongue out of Adrian’s mouth as soon as Richie left to tell him about the pathetic lay from last night who is desperately in love with his formerly dead best friend? 

Richie opens his mouth to ask when Eddie pipes up again from behind the door. 

“Should I come back in there? Are you guys talking about me?” 

And that makes Richie laugh, which is nice, honestly, and it shores up his heart enough to actually say his goodbyes. Or like, wave and awkwardly bumble toward the door. 

“I’m sure this isn’t the last time we’ll see each other,” Adrian says as Richie’s reexiting. 

At this point, Richie’s pretty sure he’s either the world’s most cryptic man, or there’s a little bit of the clown in there, deep down, still fucking with Richie in the afterlife. He adds that to the list of things to ask Eddie about once they both get their bearings.

It’s still a shock to see Eddie standing right outside, looking impatient and pissy, tapping his foot on the floor like he’s about to scold Richie for being late to class. His whole spine straightens when he sees Richie appear, and Richie smiles on instinct. 

“Where to now?” Eddie’s voice is irritated, just as Richie thought. It emboldens him a bit; not only that he knows Eddie so well after all these years, but that this really is, mostly likely, the real Eddie. 

Richie shrugs. “Breakfast?” 

Eddie scans him up and down. “Yeah, you look like you need it.” 

“Thanks,” Richie says, his chest tightening at the half-insult, then leads them out of the building. 

Once they step foot onto the pavement outside, it’s like something in Eddie snaps. 

“I saw you,” he gasps, his chest wheezing like someone trying to pull air through a tiny keyhole. It’s such a familiar sound that Richie rears back in shock before he actually hears what Eddie said.

“Look, Eds, I’m so fucking sorry about that, okay?” Richie puts a hand on his arm, and Eddie doesn’t shake it off, but just the solid feel of him is enough to throw Richie off course. “I didn’t think— I mean I thought you were _dead_ , how are you not—”

“No, I… I… _was_ , but I saw… I saw you at the…” Wheeze. Gasp. It sounds painful. Richie’s own lungs ache in sympathy before his stomach drops out when Eddie finally says, “I saw you at the bridge. Carving—” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Richie panics, taking a step back. “You _were_ dead?” 

Eddie flicks his head up and down, his face blooming an irritated red, his hand still clinging to his heaving chest. A deep, dark stirring of anger whirls around in Richie’s stomach. 

Richie doesn’t even know why he’s asking. He knows. He fucking _saw_. And no matter how much he wants to blame Ben or Mike or Bev—the one who looked him in the eye and _told him_ —he can’t deny that no matter what’s happened since, dragging Eddie’s body out of that house would have killed the rest of them. And apparently it wouldn’t have been necessary. But it doesn’t stop the clawing, petty thoughts in his head. 

And— “Eddie, you… you _saw_ me?” 

“Rich,” Eddie gasps, and Richie stops, feeling guilty.

“Right, right, the panic— you’re panicking, okay, uh.” He looks around, and notices they’re not too far from the Inn, just down the road. “Can you make it to the Inn? I still have my room, I—” 

Eddie makes a high-pitched whine, and Richie remembers what happened the last time Eddie was at the Inn. And then he notices the clear, unscarred skin on his left cheek. 

_Jesus_. 

He wants to reach up and touch it, just to be sure, but Eddie bows his head, his throat working.

“Yeah,” Eddie groans, stomping his feet in some sort of grounding technique, Richie assumes. “Yeah, let’s… let’s g-go.” 

It takes all of Richie’s energy to get Eddie to a calmer place. He agrees to pick up some food to bring back to his room while Eddie takes a shower, and tries to shut his brain down the entire time. 

“Enjoy your morning,” the waitress says, handing him a bag full of two omellettes, a huge order of stuffed hashbrowns and a tray of to-go coffee cups. “The both of you.”

She tops that off with a wink, and Richie almost drops all the food before he’s able to make it to the door. 

When he gets back, the bathroom door is still closed, so Richie sets the food on the small table in the corner and proceeds to empty one whole cup of coffee down his throat. He’s starting on the hashbrowns when Eddie emerges, and Richie freezes with a huge mouthful like he’s been caught. 

Eddie snorts. “You have hot sauce on your chin.” 

Richie blinks, hands scrabbling into the bag to get a napkin and wipe his face. He forces a swallow and tries to gather himself while Eddie takes the seat across from him. 

“You feeling better?” he asks, though he can already tell. Eddie’s limbs move easily, his chest rising and falling without effort. 

Eddie’s shoulders shrug up, the points of his collarbone shifting under his t-shirt. It’s the same outfit as before, but he looks a little more put-together. Clean and warm and comfortable, with pink cheeks from the shower and wet hair dripping down onto his forehead. It’s the softest Richie’s seen him since they were kids, and he keeps taking bites of his food to hide the way that makes him want to puke all over again. 

Eddie, on the other hand, eats like he’s been starving for years. He has no regard for the calorie count or saturated fat or even spice, dolloping his hashbrowns in the same hot sauce and licking the excess off his fingers when it drips. Richie watches him quietly until he can’t take it anymore, just the presence of him like a healthy taunt, rising up in Richie’s heart. 

“They didn’t feed you down there, huh?” he says, and Eddie stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Or up…?” Richie points up, raising an eyebrow. Eddie stares, unblinking. 

“You’re an asshole,” he says, and Richie cracks up, feeling the laughter rumble through his chest pleasantly, and after awhile, Eddie’s mouth twists until he breaks, too. 

They eat for a few more minutes once they’ve quieted down, and Richie starts to feel a little better, a little more human. Of course, that just means now that his stomach isn’t ruling him, his heart and head are kicking in. Questions upon questions start like clockwork, but before he can ask them, Eddie picks up his head and fixes him with a glare.

“So you’re fucking twenty-five year olds now, huh?” 

Richie coughs, a shred of cheese almost flying out of his mouth. “I’m sure he was… closer to thirty.” Actually, he was younger, but Richie doesn’t feel the need to specify.

Eddie shakes his head. “Not from what Adrian said.” 

“You two _talked_?” 

“Dude. Talked? We were stranded in…” He gestures, hands flailing where he set down his fork. “Wherever the fuck we were together.” 

“Stranded in—” Richie takes a breath. “What the fuck _happened_ to you? I mean, no offense, man, but the last time I saw you, you weren’t looking very…” 

“Alive,” Eddie finishes, and Richie gulps at the implications. At the memories. At the sound of his own screaming reverberating through his head. 

“Yeah, fucking _alive_ , alright? You were very, very—” 

“Dead,” Eddie says, matter-of-factly, and Richie _rages_. 

“Yeah, you were dead. You were really fucking—” 

He pulls back before he loses it, his teeth gritted hard behind his lips. He tries to take a deep breath, dropping his fork and lifting his elbows onto the table to ground himself. His emotional state feels thrown back and forth like a ragdoll; like Eddie’s panicking when Richie is calm and vice versa; like he can’t get his bearings, and as soon as he does, he’s thrown another curve-ball. 

“Rich,” Eddie says softly, reaching a hand across the table, but Richie’s too caught up. He pulls away before Eddie can touch him. 

“Just… give me a minute,” Richie heaves, trying desperately not to cry. He’s done enough of that in the past two days. “I’m a little off-center or some shit.” 

“Join the club,” Eddie huffs with some humor, and something in Richie finally snaps. 

“Could you give me the slightest fucking clue here?” He stares, but Eddie just gapes at him. “Two minutes ago you were freaking out, and now you’re ribbing me and acting like this is all—”

“I saw you,” Eddie says, again, and Richie stops. Stares. 

“You said that. I don’t know what that fucking _means_.” 

Eddie’s forehead flinches. “Okay, alright, gimme a second to—” 

“You _got_ a second! You had a lot of fucking seconds, dude! I need you to _tell me_ what you mean when you say you _saw_ me, because I’ve had enough of people being fucking… fucking weird and withholding, and I _held_ your… your _body_ and I’m about to lose—”

“Alright! Okay! I’m—” Eddie clenches his balled up, hot sauce-soaked napkin against his thigh where it bounces under the table, avoiding Richie’s eyes, and something about seeing him upset again weirdly soothes Richie’s own panic. At least they’re even.

Eddie looks back up at him, then settles back in his chair, rubbing over his eyes. Richie wants to jump across the table and shake him, and that thought scares him almost as much as what might come out of Eddie’s mouth. This burning, unsettled thing in his gut is spilling out in all the worst ways. He doesn’t want to _hurt_ Eddie, he just wants an explanation. He wants to know why the universe forced him to mourn Eddie, and then took it all back with a big ol’ helping of humiliation to top it off. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, and Richie tries to steel himself, but doesn’t really know how in such unfamiliar terrain. _Fuck_ , he could use a drink. 

“I died,” Eddie says, his throat working. Richie’s mind goes a little numb, and it turns out he doesn’t need a drink after all, because hearing those words from Eddie’s own mouth is disorienting enough. 

It nips all the anger in the bud, too. Turns out being face to face with Eddie’s big brown eyes and wobbling thin lips is enough to wipe Richie’s slate clean. 

“Things were… things were confusing,” Eddie continues. “Time didn’t work the same way. I didn’t know what had happened, I just woke up in front of the empty lot where Neibolt used to be and I was… I was alone.” His voice cracks on the last word, and Richie’s body jolts, a shock of sadness rippling through him like a shot, painful and all-consuming. 

“Eds—”

“Adrian was there, eventually,” Eddie continues, determined, ignoring Richie’s shaking plea. “He’d been the same way for days. Weeks, even, we had no idea, but… we both had wounds. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what had happened.” 

He gnaws at his lip. 

“I saw things. All jumbled up. Mike loading boxes into his car, Bill getting on a plane, Ben and Bev holding hands, shit like that. You, uh. You at the bridge.” His eyes snap again, and Richie catches them, holds them heavily, and another shivery jolt goes through his body. “Then it was just you.” 

“Eddie, I—”

“It was like I couldn’t leave you. Not that I wanted to,” he says, huffing out a sad laugh, staring down at his fiddling hands. Richie’s whole heart wells up, full in his chest, more hope than he’s felt in years. He wants to lean across, press his lips into Eddie’s half-smile, thank it for existing again, despite everything, but he stays still and listens. “But I didn’t know why it was _you_ I was stuck on. I mean, I saw what you carved, but it was like I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t, like, bouncing around anymore. But then you were talking to Don, and then you went home with him, and I—” 

He pauses. He taps his foot on the shitty carpet, and when his eyes slide up slowly to Richie’s, his pupils are blown and shining. A solid heat lances up Richie’s spine. 

“You…?” 

“I…” Eddie’s smile goes a little dirty, one eyebrow bouncing up, almost imperceptibly. “I figured it out.” 

He shrugs, like it’s simple. 

Richie’s on fucking _fire_. It can’t possibly mean what he thinks it means, things are too garbled in his head. He hasn’t had enough sleep, he’s gone through the entire gamut of human emotions in a week, or maybe he put too much hot sauce on his omelette, because Eddie can’t possibly have ghost-watched him get fucked and is now _telling him to his face_. 

“Fuck,” Richie finds himself mumbling, but then Eddie’s smile goes all stretched out and hazy. 

“Yeah.” 

There’s no stopping Richie’s whole body from vibrating with uncomfortable need. But Eddie keeps staring, keeps watching him, his eyes dragging up and down. When they settle on Richie’s lips, his resolve breaks. 

“Yeah?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods, quickly. 

And that’s Richie’s limit. 

He’s out of his chair before he even notices, and there’s a moment of pause, when he thinks maybe it’s too much, but then Eddie meets him halfway, wrapping a warm, solid hand around the back of his neck and pulling him into a teeth-clashing, way-too-wet kiss that’s the best thing Richie’s ever felt in his entire fucking pathetic life. 

The position is too awkward, too hunched and stretched over the table between them, so Richie takes a few steps closer and hears the light thump of a piece of plastic silverware hitting the carpet. Eddie breaks away from him with a gasp, and Richie worries the spell is broken. 

“I can’t believe you took him home,” Eddie snarls, his breath hot against Richie’s mouth. Richie sputters, shaking his head. 

“He came on to _me_ , didn’t you see—”

“Oh, I fucking saw,” Eddie says, and scrapes his fingers down the front of Richie’s chest. His nails pull on Richie’s hair under his shirt, then his nipples, and he hisses into Eddie’s mouth, caught somewhere between arousal and pain and the fading grief triggered by his confused, aching body and mind. Eddie’s so close, so warm and here and _alive_ that Richie wants to sob into him, but Eddie’s going too fast and hard for him to have the time. 

In fact, as soon as Eddie manhandles him across the room and over to the bed, things start to get a little fuzzy. The memory of Don doing almost the same thing is so present in his mind that he tries to keep his eyes open as Eddie mauls him, which probably makes him look a little crazy, but after the week he’s had it’s probably not a far-off assumption. Still, it gives him time to study the freckles bridged across Eddie’s nose, and the little lock of hair the curls against his forehead. When he reaches up to sweep at it, Eddie groans softly into his mouth. 

So Richie shoves further up the bed, pulling Eddie closer, and thinks: _Fuck, this might make it all worthwhile._ He’s fucking _here_ , so Richie lets his eyes slipped closed and lets himself have this without feeling the guilt of last night ruin it. Because Eddie’s up on his knees, pressing whimpered “Rich, Richie, _god_ , Richie,”’s into his mouth, straddling Richie’s thigh, pushed up on his knees, his hands slipping back and forth between grasping at Richie’s neck and tangling in his greasy hair. If Richie had managed one single solitary second alone after last night he might have showered, but the fresh, clean smell of Eddie is enough between them. And Eddie certainly doesn’t seem to mind. His mouth is greedy, sucking at Richie’s neck, licking over the curve of his jaw. 

It’s like he’s on overdrive. All Richie can do is fist his hands in the comforter and hold on. That is, until Eddie’s hands drift down to cup at his dick in his pants. 

“Shit,” Richie gasps, and Eddie pulls back at what must be the off-kilter sound of his voice. 

“Richie—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Richie tells him, weaving an arm around his waist to bring him back. “My brain and my dick are on different wavelengths, but the brain will catch up, I promise.” 

He doesn’t give Eddie much time to take that in before he settles him firmly on his lap. No more of this half-on, half-off bullshit. He wants to feel Eddie heavy and crushing on his thighs, breathing warm and real between them, maybe even take both their shirts off and get this damn show on the road.

Now _that’s_ an idea. 

“Off, off,” Richie gasps, hoping that gets his point across, and when Eddie breaks away from nibbling at his earlobe and rips off his shirt, Richie doesn’t quite make it to his own once he sees the clean, bare, patchy-haired chest in front of him.

“Richie, c’mon,” Eddie huffs irritably, then stops when he catches Richie staring. 

Because his chest is… fine. It’s better than fine it’s. Intact. Whole. No blood, no gaping wounds, no reason to press his balled up jacket and hang on for dear life. No hoping that just the press of his fingers and a little fabric will bring the light back into Eddie’s eyes. Eddie’s eyes are dark and wanting, just for him. Eddie’s nipples are pink and perked and Eddie’s abs are stupidly toned and Eddie’s pecs and shoulders and collarbone are all here for Richie to touch and kiss and Eddie’s— 

He’s fucking _beautiful_. 

Richie runs a hand down the center of Eddie’s torso, and something flashes across Eddie’s eyes that he must swallow down, because instead of saying anything, he leans down and slides his tongue over Richie’s bottom lip. Richie opens for him. He presses at the hinge of Eddie’s jaw to get him to whine—again, fuck, _again_ and _again_ , Richie can’t hear it enough—and lets Eddie push him down onto the bed and grind their cocks together through their pants. 

Then the enormity of it all kind of hits him, so when Eddie gives him a second to breathe, he hears himself saying, “Is this what you want?” 

“Hmmhuh?” Eddie murmurs, already leaning in for more. 

“You want this?” He pecks Eddie’s lips to keep him there. “With me?” 

“Richie, what the fuck,” Eddie says into his mouth, tonguing over his teeth in a way that Richie’s found unpleasant before, but Eddie makes it kind of cute, so he lets it happen while Eddie keeps scolding him. “I’m literally, _mmmf_ , making out with you _right now_ —” 

“I know—”

“I’m really fucking hard for you,” he says, grinding forward, as if to show Richie the proof, “and I know you can feel that, you absolute _idiot_ —” 

“Fuck, I can feel it and I’m… _Eddie_ , _fuck_.” 

“If you don’t want this, _please_ fucking tell me, but otherwise please shut the fuck up because all I’ve been thinking about since you magicked me back to life is getting my fingers in your ass and I am not letting you _fuck this up for me_.” 

Richie’s head hits the mattress with an overwhelmed thump. He blinks up at Eddie, who is panting both angrily and hornily, and despite that having featured _heavily_ in his teenaged spank bank fantasies, it feels like Eddie’s dropped an emotional and sexual bomb on him. 

“ _Magicked you_ — are you saying I brought you…” Richie clenches his eyes shut and sees stars. The half-pound of hashbrowns gurgle in his stomach. Eddie’s hands grip hard around the layer of fat on his hips and shake him back to life. So to speak. 

“I fucking _told_ you, I don’t know what happened, but I kinda…” Eddie licks over his lips, and Richie’s suddenly, exceedingly glad his eyes are open. “I kinda figured that was it, since I didn’t see, uh. The _end_.” His hands fall from Richie’s hips. Richie puts them back and smirks. 

“The money shot, you mean.” 

“Jesus,” Eddie groans. “Yes.” 

“That’s too bad, Eds.” Richie gets bold, rubbing gently over the bulge growing in Eddie’s pants, returning to the Eddie-based fantasies that managed to get him off last night. “It was pretty good.” 

Eddie’s eyes cast down, and Richie’s worried he’s gone too far. He sits up and slides the mischievous hand around to cup at the small of Eddie’s back instead. Eddie mumbles something unintelligible, so Richie plucks his fingers off his own hips and kisses them, one by one.

“What was that?” he asks, sucking on Eddie’s pinky, shivering in the wake of Eddie’s moan, because Eddie says he wants to _put these in him_. 

“I said I _felt_ it,” Eddie says quietly, and Richie can feel himself sweating through his jeans. He gives Eddie’s pointer finger a lingering suck, imagining Eddie’s cock, and then Eddie says, “And I bet I can do better than _pretty good_.” 

“Fuck,” Richie gasps, eyelids fluttering. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” 

Eddie’s smile is dizzyingly sexy, a little crooked, but before Richie can kiss at it and tell him that, Eddie’s shoving him hard at the chest. 

Richie’s back hits the bed and he cracks out a laugh. Eddie’s too busy to join him, desperately undoing his buttons and fly to pull his jeans inelegantly down over his thighs and calves, until he realizes Richie’s shoes are still on, and then it becomes a bit of a wrestle. Richie helps him eventually, and then his bare, hard cock is bouncing up between them. 

“Oh fuck,” Eddie says, and Richie feels a wet warmth around the tip. When he looks down, Eddie’s latched around his cock like a suction cup, his cheeks flushed and hollowed and his eyes rolled back in pleasure. Richie’s hand springs up to grab at Eddie’s hair, then his shoulder, anything to ground him. In the end, Eddie pulls off with a brief apology after only a few seconds, but Richie’s still left reeling. 

“Why are you— _mmmph_ …” Richie muffles into yet another kiss, this time tinged with the salty taste of his own pre-come from Eddie’s tongue. “Why the fuck are you _sorry_?”

“Shut up and lie back,” Eddie snaps. 

Richie goes easily this time, even when Eddie urges him to bend a knee up and spread himself out. He feels exposed and vulnerable and… horny, but the knowledge that Eddie was watching him last night oddly takes some of the edge off. And it’s fucking _hot_. Especially with Eddie grabbing a pillow to kneel on, facing his hole with abject determination, his brows knitted tightly together. As a distraction, Richie takes ahold of aching cock, giving the shaft long, slow pulls to keep the tension alive. Or, rather, to stop it from snapping quick and hard like a rubberband. He’s already set adrift with thoughts of Eddie watching him come all over himself, telling him how good he is. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hums, squeezing at the base of his dick. 

“You…” he hears Eddie say, and picks up his head to see Eddie transfixed, staring down at him. 

“Huh?” 

Eddie just blinks, and Richie squirms under the attention. 

“C’mon man, you can’t just…”

“You look so good,” Eddie finally says, then hocks a wad of spit right onto Richie’s clenching hole. Then he sticks his hand up in Richie’s shimmering eye line, wiggling his fingers. “Can I put them in you?” 

Richie nods, sweat flicking from his forehead and onto his chest hair. He feels disgusting, already damp in several places, but Eddie watches him with hunger, slipping one finger in past the knuckle. 

“ _Ohhh_ ,” he groans as Eddie sets a strong pace, curious but agile, twisting and pushing until he finds Richie’s prostate _far_ too quickly. “What the _f_ —slow _down_ there, cowboy,” he gasps, but it comes out needy, high in his throat, and Eddie gives a full-throated moan in response. _That_ gets Richie’s blood boiling. He pumps his hips down, trying to bounce on Eddie’s finger until he gives in an adds another. 

Richie practically thrashes on the bed. Tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes, and then Eddie’s fingers twist _again_ , then _shake_ within him, tapping on that spot and vibrating back and forth. The whole of Richie’s body plunges off a cliff of control; actually, it’s more like Eddie shoving him off. 

“What are you… what the… _fuck_ , Eddie—”

“Is it good?” Eddie asks, his voice shining with confidence as Richie melts into a puddle of goo in the Derry Townhouse. “Are you gonna come?” 

“Not… I didn’t, uh—” Richie wants to come but knows he can’t quite yet, feels too far and wants every inch of Eddie pressed against him without his fingers going anywhere. “Come up here,” he gasps, and Eddie leans down to suck a quick mark on the underside of his thigh before listening. 

Unfortunately, Eddie’s pants are still on, so he has to dislodge his fingers to get better situated. Once he’s naked, Richie takes a split second to admire it before forcing Eddie on top of him in a heap of hairy, flailing limbs. It doesn’t take long for Eddie’s fingers to find his rim again, stretching and pushing until he has mercy on Richie, pumping in long and hard like he was before. 

Richie can feel Eddie’s dick sliding against his so he puts his hand to good use and wraps his big palm around the both of them. Eddie groans loudly, so Richie _squeezes_ , mesmerized by the peek of the slippery heads coming through the circle of his fist. Then Eddie forces their lips back together, whining into his mouth, bucking into his hand, fucking him with three fingers and Richie hears the slamming of the headboard into the flimsy walls with the movement of their bodies but he has never cared less about anything in his life. 

They keep at that for much longer than Richie thought he would last, breaking apart to gasp and giggle at the noises, then diving back in for another round of licking and panting into each other’s mouths. Richie feels so fucking in love he could burst into flames. Maybe he will when this is all over. All he can do now is keep jerking them off, together, and try not to focus too hard on the way Eddie’s cock moves so beautifully against his. 

Eddie’s body gets twitchy against his, his fingers slowing for a moment, and Richie knows he’s close. He tries to focus on making it good, making it _hot_ , so he slides he breaks their kiss to suck at the skin on Eddie’s neck, right at his pulse point, and Eddie’s dick _flinches_ in his hold. 

Eddie pulls away with a grunt, moaning, “Oh my god, oh my _god_ ,” as he shoots ropes of come all over Richie’s hand and stomach. Richie tries to hold out, never wanting it to end, but then Eddie’s brain must come back online, because he growls, “C’mon, Richie, you look so beautiful. C’mon, give it to me.” 

“ _Eddie_.” 

“Yeah, Rich, come all over us,” Eddie says, and Richie’s hips thrust up once, twice, and he’s filling the Derry Townhouse with the filthy sounds of his own orgasm. It rips through him almost violently, springing tears back to his eyes, and all the while Eddie’s whispering, “Fuck, _god_ , yeah, just like that, you look so good,” his fingers pistoning in and out, so Richie lets himself fall apart, still holding their twitching cocks together until he’s too overstimulated to keep going. 

When Eddie pulls out, it doesn’t feel like losing anything. Not with the way Eddie gathers him up into his arms and pets at his hair until their breathing slows. Not with the way Eddie’s scent is in his nostrils, his come on his skin, his spit still shining on his lips. Eddie’s too solid, too real.

Too fucking _alive_. And it’s perfect. 

“What do we do now?” Eddie asks after they clean up, all cuddled together again in the center of the bed, and Richie’s whole stomach drops. 

It was stupid of him to think this was no-strings-tied, love-of-his-life, fairytale sex that would lead him down the eternal path of having this for the rest of his life. But sue him for getting finger-fucked and becoming an optimistic for one fucking minute. Eddie’s still married, last time Richie checked, and he lives in New York, and even though Richie could feasibly live anywhere, it’s not like he’s been _invited_. And the concept of _asking_ Eddie where this is going or what this means or how the fuck they’re going to possibly make this work makes Richie want to reach down his own throat, pull out his heart and drive to his mother’s suburban house and shove it into the rusty trash compactor. 

He holds closer around Eddie’s middle to try to convey this to him. Maybe if he squeezes hard enough he can deliver his vulnerable and heart-achingly pathetic thoughts to Eddie telepathically, and there will be no need to verbally humiliate himself anymore than he usually does. 

Instead he says, “Finish the stuffed hashbrowns?” and Eddie pinches at the excess skin of his elbow. 

Eddie doesn’t say anything for another little while, but Richie feels him tense up, so he rubs a soothing line across his naked back and waits. 

“I called Myra this morning,” he says finally, and Richie… did not expect _that_. 

“When you were _dead_?” 

“No, dumbass, once I was alive. I couldn’t touch anything when I was dead.” 

“Oh,” Richie says, and distantly wonders if he’ll ever get used to Eddie talking about the after-life with such an air of nonchalance. “Right. _Ghost_ rules.” 

“Kinda,” Eddie grunts thoughtfully. “I never got around to seeing if I could move objects with the intensity of my anger or whatever.” 

“If anyone could, it would be you, Eds,” Richie snorts. Eddie corkscrews a finger into his stomach, but he tops this one off with a kiss, then buries his face back in Richie’s chest. 

“Anyway, I told her I was leaving.” 

“Oh.” Richie bites at the inside of his cheek. “Alright.” 

“Yeah.”

Richie feels Eddie’s breath against his chest hair, tickling and warm and a bit too fast. He has no fucking clue what to say. _Come back with me? When are you moving in? D’you wanna go down to the corner store and get some condoms so we can keep this party going?_

 _Please don’t ever leave me again_? 

Richie takes a slow breath in and considers the fear plunging his stomach into the icy depths of insecurity. Eddie is the one bringing this up, after all. Chances are when a guy comes back to life and makes a beeline right for your hookup spot, he’s _probably_ interested in something more serious than just mind-blowing fingering and a messy handjob. If the look in Eddie’s eyes as they talked and kissed and touched and… all that is any indication, Richie thinks they might just be in the same stupidly-in-love boat. 

Then Eddie sighs, long-suffering, and says, “You’ve been quiet a long time, so I’m gonna go ahead and say that I’m in love with you.” 

Richie pulls back so he can see Eddie’s eyes. They’re soft, if not a little annoyed. 

“I left my wife ‘cause I figured you’d be, like, on board,” Eddie adds, and Richie nods, pressing in for a kiss, leaning forward until he’s rolling over on top of Eddie, smothering him with his weight. 

“M’on board, yes,” Richie mumbles into his mouth. “Definitely on board, yep. Mhm.” 

“Thought so,” Eddie says back, and Richie feels his greedy little hand snake down between them yet again. 

“Kids these days,” Richie grumbles, checking Eddie’s watch for an excuse to touch him. “Time is of no object to them.” 

“They _just_ got in, I’m sure they’re exhausted,” Eddie says, waving him off but accepting a kiss on the cheek. He takes a sip of his iced tea and covertly checks his watch himself. Richie hides a laugh behind a slice of bread. Just as he’s about to poke further, he sees Adrian and Don emerging from behind the corner of the cafe. 

“Eddie!” Adrian calls, and Eddie springs to a stand to accept a hug. Richie and Don make eye contact and wave, and Richie thinks of going in for a hug, but for their first reunion it seems a bit… much. They’ll ease each other in.

Eddie and Adrian were the originators of the Sunday Brunch idea when he and Don decided to move to Chicago, and while Richie wasn’t about to object to Eddie seeing his partner-in-resurrection as often as he wants, he feels a little hesitant about seeing his own. Most of Richie’s past hookups wanted nothing to do with him, so drinking mimosas and munching on overpriced focaccia bread and eggs benedict with one is a little out of his wheelhouse. But he loves Eddie, so he agreed. 

Besides, it gives Eddie a distraction away from all the legal legwork of his divorce for the first time in months. There’s only so much all-day fucking Richie can do at his age, though not for a lack of trying. 

As they eat the awkwardness slides away, and Richie’s left actually kind of… liking these guys. He and Don _are_ pretty similar—both grew up in Derry, closeted and the target of violence, experiencing the whiplash between losing the love of their life and abruptly getting him back via sex magic—and they both have a certain understanding of the shared humiliation that has been this entire experience. They spend a couple hours chatting out in the sun until Don starts yawning audibly, and Eddie’s lawyer starts calling him on an endless loop. 

They say their goodbyes and start wandering back to the apartment when Richie sees an unfamiliarly wistful look cross over Eddie’s face. 

“Y’alright there, bud?” 

Eddie turns to shrug at him, and Richie takes the opportunity to drape an arm around his shoulders. They walk a little crookedly down the sidewalk, but it’s worth it for the way Eddie tucks his head into the sweaty pit of Richie’s arm and tries to hide the way he inhales. Fucking weirdo. 

“It’s strange, I guess,” Eddie says, and Richie barely holds back the burst of laughter. 

“Tell me about it.” 

Eddie’s quiet, his feet dragging on the concrete before he says, “I feel, like. Sad? Almost. It’s stupid.” 

“Sad? But everything turned out alright!” Richie gestures back at the cafe, whirling Eddie around with his grumpy little face on display. “Look at us! Just four gays getting brunch like God intended.” 

“I know, I know,” Eddie concedes, shoving at Richie until he rights their gait. “It was just a close fucking call.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, sudden tears stinging at his eyes. He pulls Eddie close to kiss at his sweaty temple, relishing in the way it makes him wrinkle his nose under his sunglasses. “Yeah, it was.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, find me on twitter or ao3 as @camerasparring :)


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